Remembering Grandma



My grandmother with my middle child in 2007





When I think about Grandma the thing that strikes me most is her stubborn perseverance through difficulty. When I was in high school, Grandma hurt her back cleaning the back of her piano -- It's OK. Go ahead and say it: 'Who does that?'

Well let me tell you: I don't. I can barely keep the fronts of my furniture clean. But Grandma was a bit of an over-achiever when it came to cleaning.

So she hurt her back and was paralyzed from the waist down. Before this, she was an active lady (do I need to remind you that she moved her piano, by herself, to clean the back of it?) But there she was. Paralyzed. And then my Grandpa's heart began to fail. He was in the hospital and she couldn't be there with him. Eventually they were able to stabilize Grandpa and he came home.

I like to think of this time as God's gift to all of us. Because in this period of time Grandma was living in the rehab hospital working for hours every day to get back on her feet and Grandpa spent most of his days at our house. God was so good to us in that time. In spite of all of the turmoil -- or maybe because of it -- our family was gifted with an opportunity to learn to love each other well. And Grandma? Well, Grandma never gave up. She worked hard and with such determination and by the grace of God she walked out of that rehab hospital a few days before her birthday.

But unfortunately, the difficulty wasn't over. Because on her birthday, Grandpa suffered a heart attack. He died just a few days later. At the time I had no concept of how much Grandma's world had been rocked and in my self-centered teenaged-ness I just didn't get it. But here was a woman whose body had betrayed her and still had more recovering to do, but she had just had this victory of walking when no one knew for sure if she could and coming home to her husband whom she had worried about for months from her hospital room.

And suddenly he was gone.


The next several years were difficult for Grandma. And at times her despair was knock-you-in- the-face overwhelming. But she never gave up. Never. She kept persisting. She kept going. Many people would have given in to the temptation to just give up when faced with what Grandma faced. And though as a teenager I didn't get it, as a grownup I now see that underneath her grandmotherly exterior was a will stronger than steel.




OK, maybe not this rockin' awesome!

One more thing about my Grandma. She had the best shoes. I mean rockin' awesome shoes. To die for shoes. Shoes to match every outfit (of which she had many.) Well, after she hurt her back and then relearned to walk again, all those incredible shoes had to go and boring sensible shoes had to take their place. So she took all of those beautiful shoes, put them in a few white garbage bags and said, "Jennifer, whatever you want and can wear are yours."

Cha-ching!

Except for one small problem: Grandma was a size 7 1/2 narrow. I was an 8 not-so-narrow. I went through all of those shoes, tried them on, and they hurt. But man, did they look good. So I took the ones that hurt the least and a few that just were too stinkin awesome to resist. And I wore those shoes every chance I got even though they pinched my toes so bad I thought they might just fall off.

You know, they tell you not to judge another person until you've walked a mile in their shoes. Well, having walked the whole way through high school graduation in a pair of Grandma's shoes I can testify to the fact that walking any distance in someone else's shoes is a difficult to downright painful experience. But it's because her shoes weren't fit for my feet. They were fit for her feet. We can't ever really walk a mile in someone else's shoes and truly know what it's like for them because their shoes were made to fit them. We all have our own shoes and God gives us our own paths to walk and though it might not always be easy or comfortable, they are decidedly ours and no one else can walk them for us.

Grandma walked a difficult path and I never completely got it. I understand more now, but her shoes weren't fit for my feet and so I'll never know fully. But what I do know is that because of the path she walked she determined that whatever she could still do she would use to help others who couldn't. That's why she drove many people to doctor's appointments. Because she still could and they couldn't. And I believe that is why she also so determinedly kept in contact with old friends -- because she knew the value of relationships and how easily they can change and be gone.

 

You know, God came to earth and walked a mile in our shoes. More than a mile. Many, many miles. But the path that Jesus walked was brutally hard and our shoes were not up to the terrain. Jesus died because he was rejected while walking in our shoes. He didn't have to. It was the path that God chose for Him to travel and He did it to show His love and obedience to His Father. And he did it so that all who believe in Him have their feet set on a path that leads directly to the presence of God the Father. He did it so that Grandma can stand straight and tall, unhindered by aches and pains, and raise hands no longer gnarled by arthritis, to glory in His perfect holiness.

And by the way, if there are shoes in heaven, you can bet hers are going to be rockin' awesome.

Being The Mom

I have spent the last hour trying to post something on this blog that is actually worth reading. Up to this point, I have completely failed.

So I'm going to go fold the wash. Not my wash, mind you. No. That would make sense. Instead, I'm going to go fold my mom's wash. Because since she's been sick I've been washing my parents clothes every week. For almost 8 months now. I do it because it's the right thing. I do it because someone has to do it. And I don't complain because I don't want to look like a bad or unsupportive or unloving daughter. But let me be completely honest:

I hate it.

I hate it because I find other people's dirty clothing to be really gross. I hate it because I already have 5 people to wash for in my own family. I hate it because washing clothes is not my idea of a good time. But mostly what I really hate about it is what it represents.

Because what it means to me is that I'm The Mom now. My mom isn't The Mom of the family anymore. She's still a mom, but she's not The Mom. I am. And I just don't feel grown up enough to be The Mom. Oh, I know I'm almost 40 years old and I have 3 kids and actually am a mom and have been for more than 7 years, but being The Mom is a different proposition. Being The Mom means being the caretaker of the family: planning the family holiday meals and preparing them, remembering everyone's important days, meeting the emotional needs of the family, and just generally being the last woman standing at all times.

It scares me. Truly. The role change seems to have happened so fast, although truth be told, I can see now that it's been coming for awhile. And the reality is that most moms reach this milestone at some point in their life's journey. The mantle is passed. And we do it. We do it because somebody has to.

We do it because we are The Mom.

“Honor your father and your mother, so that you may live long in the land the LORD your God is giving you." --Exodus 20:12 (NIV, 1984)

Coming back

That's right.

You heard it here first. I'm coming back. When, you ask? Soon. Very soon.

Stay tuned...

Hearing Voices

Today I've been hearing voices.

No, not the crazy kind of "voices in my head" that originate from a misfiring neuron in my brain. Frankly, aside from the whole insanity thing, I'd almost rather hear a voice telling me I look like Princess Diana than listen to my 3-year-old's whining voice that was unrelenting today. But again, that's not the point of this post.

Today, out among some friends, I was treated to voices that encouraged and voices that held thinly concealed disdain for my newly announced decision to home school our oldest. Now, I could probably treat you all to a sweet rant about the conceit of some people who think they know better than my husband and I how to educate our children, but that's a post for another day.

What I do want to reflect on is this: Who do you listen to? Or, for all of you grammatically correct English majors out there: To whom do you listen?

Which voices do you let in and which ones do you filter out? Because the reality of life is that people just don't keep their opinions to themselves. Sometimes it's intended to be helpful, but sometimes it's definitely intended to discourage. And sometimes it's just because some people have an extremely high opinion of their own opinions and love to hear themselves talk. And since we can't go through life with our hands over our ears singing, "La, la, la, la, la I can't hear you" we all have to make decisions about what to do with the unwanted opinions and advice of others.

The world tells us that we can find the truth in our own hearts. But God says, "The heart is deceitful above all things and beyond cure. Who can understand it?" (Jeremiah 17:9) Churches are fond of reminding us that God is still speaking and that sometimes He speaks through those closest to us. While that is certainly true at times, how do you know when it's God?

This brings me to a conversation my 5-year-old and I had this evening. He was frustrated with his sister and decided he was going to pray to God about what to do. (Wow. Just an aside, but isn't God great? Truly our children are fertile soil!) Anyway, the whole time he's praying to God, the whiny 3-year-old is singing at the top of her lungs. Finally, he says to me, "Mommy. How will I ever hear God talk back to me?" And then, before I had a moment to respond, he says, "Why doesn't God ever talk back to me when I pray?"

In that moment, my 5-year-old hit on a theological question we all struggle with: How do we hear God's voice? And is it even there?

And so, after a very long deep breath and a prayer for wisdom, I reminded him he needed to listen after he talks to God. But then I realized that I didn't want to give him some trite answer about "being quiet before God" because no amount of silence does you any good if you aren't able to recognize the voice for which you are listening.

So I walked my son through what I do. I asked him what he knows about what God thinks about families and about how we all get along. Because when I need to hear God's voice, I review what I already know about Him. I walk myself through His character and His promises and the life that Jesus lived. Because it is there, in the midst of God's presence and character that I find the answers to the questions and the peace to live without all of the answers.

I have no idea if that teachable moment with my 5-year-old will leave a permanent imprint on his life, but it did on mine. Because my heart that had been wounded by discouraging words from friends was reminded that people are fallible but God is not. There are many voices, but only one truth.

To whom do you listen?